


pistons

by witchesdiner



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 23:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchesdiner/pseuds/witchesdiner
Summary: Edward's train ride back from East City after the State Alchemist Exam.10/3





	pistons

This was his second train ride without Al. Well, closer to the fifth if he was counting transfers. But to Edward, it was all one stretch of grey sky, empty stomach, empty field, joint pain, cow, house, house, ass-numbing misery punctuated by stumbling through wide halls, crammed in on all sides as, impossibly, one voice cut through the din screaming “Peanuts! Meat pies!”

He didn’t think Alphonse would remember their first train ride. He’d known a mere handful of words then, still speaking in laughs and cries sprinkled with the occasional “Don’t!” for when he grew tired of Edward poking him.

To avoid the crying that keeping the two in such close quarters was bound to incite, their parents sat across the aisle from each other. His father would reach over occasionally to accept carefully wrapped bundles of sweets and sandwiches from Trisha’s basket or squeeze her hand.

Edward crossed his arms and legs and rammed his head into the window. The cold glass helped banish the memory of the large warm hand cupping his, its companion pointing out the window, and the soft, low voice explaining how mountains formed and how water, fire, and metal worked together in the belly of the train to power the steam engine that pulled them.

* * *

It had been a lonely week in East City awaiting the results of his exam. As tempting as it was to explore the city, he’d felt too heavy and strange to handle more than the trip from his hotel room to the corner bakery to the library. Without the stringent Rockbell rule or Alphonse’s cool hand on his shoulder and calm voice in his ear, suddenly being a complete mess was an option.

He spent four eight hour days at the library, taking in as much information available to civilians as he could. In the smallest scrawl he was capable of, he filled pages in his notebook with the names of writers and researchers. When they accepted him into the program (as they would, without a doubt), he would ask if Colonel Mustang could get him in contact with them. It was long and brutal but nothing compared to where he’d been or where he was going, so he sat under the lamplight, chewed on his pen, leaned back in his chair, and waved at the children who walked past, hand in hand with adults who tossed suspicious glances his way.  

The day before he would receive his results had been some stupid holiday he’d never heard of. Realizing he’d trudged through wind and rain for nothing, he’d upturned his nose at the closed sign on the library door and marched through streets, up several flights of stairs, and down hallways to collapse in his bed.

It was boring as hell, those days spent curled up in painful, anxious knots under the scratchy sheets waiting for the phone call that would open or close the door on his chances of access, aid, and a future where he could make things right for Alphonse.

“Lovely to hear from you, _Major_ Elric,” the Colonel’s voice grinned at him when that blessed, horrible day arrived.

“Oh?” He swayed, weak-kneed but suddenly lighter. He hoped that the receptionist hadn’t noticed the counter was all that was keeping him up. “Thank you, sir. When am I reporting for duty?”

“Well, first you’ll be reporting to my office for paperwork.” The Colonel paused. Was he making a joke? After an additional pause, then a sigh, he ploughed on, “That’s tomorrow. Noon.”

The guilty fog that plagued his days of inactivity was lifting, bit by bit, as he climbed the stairs and unlocked his door. His head was clear, light was streaming in through his now-parted curtains, and he was suddenly able to shower and move the layer of personal debris covering the rug into his trunk. He admired the wide, criss-crossing circles and flowers spread across the rug, rocking on his heels and threading together his first neat braid of the week.

* * *

Edward rubbed his thumb over the raised surface of his watch, frowning as cobble-stoned cities and hamlets gave way to farmland and dirt roads. He sunk deeper into his seat, bored out of his mind and frustrated with yet another meaningless day. He needed to stay sharp, move, do something to keep him from melting into the pathetic person that had stolen half the week from him. 

All he could do was fidget, run his thumb over his watch and mull over his feelings, sorting them into productive and unproductive.

He thought of home, with Winry hovering over him and swearing she had to tighten this or that, with Pinako smoking on the porch and talking in her quick precise way, with Alphonse who would rope him into chores or a walk along the riverbed. Everyone was warm, in voice and action if not body. Everything was warm and close and small.

Like a family spread over the aisles, like unwrapping the last slice of mom’s apple pie and finding it in his heart to share with his brother. Like the pair of laughs over his head or the heavy hand tousling his hair.

For the first time in a long time, a man was walking up a hill in his mind, balancing books in one arm and flowers in the other.

One glove was strewn across his lap as the cold of metal in his hand and glass against his cheek seeped into his bones. A lump was twisting its way up his throat as he thought of fields other than the ones that hurtled past. Hills he’d spent a short lifetime running up and down. Fields that had brushed his bare feet and tasted his blood.

He thought of sunny days and goat farmers who knew him by name and Winry smiling down at him. Of Alphonse’s hand on his shoulder and soft voice reassuring “It’s okay to take it slow; you need to heal.”

Edward had pushed the gentle hand away, sick with the knowledge that his brother would wait years and years for him if he had to. As if the hands that pulled Alphonse’s body apart in his nightmares weren’t extant and probably engaged in that very activity that very moment.

He’d seen the way the Rockbells watched him these days. Like he was going to explode and all the screws and shrapnel would burrow its way into them.

And they were right to be afraid, he thought, imagining the fear and guilt in his chest like the fire and boiler, his arms and legs pistons that would pull forward the rebellious machine that was his body.

* * *

“Hey! Are there any seats left on tonight's train?”

“Yes, sir! Plenty!”

“I’ll take two.”


End file.
